He Doesn't Care
by Deceptive D Minor
Summary: Rumplestiltskin he doesn't care for Belle. At least that's what he keeps telling himself.  -Rumplestilkin's thoughts about Belle during "Skin Deep"


**Disclaimer: The characters in the work of fiction belong to ABC. The author of this story is a poor, starving college student. It'd be pointless to sue her.**

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><p>He doesn't care.<p>

When he first received the letter pleading for help against the ogres from the merchant-king he doesn't give it much thought. It's just another kingdom asking for help from the notorious Rumplestiltskin, begging for a solution to their problems but offering nothing of value. Gold, why would he need gold. He makes gold. He is gold. Still, the chance to strike a deal and toy with the lives in this kingdom is irresistible.

There is still the matter of payment. Nothing trivial would do for magic this great. Something irreplaceable, priceless. The merchant-king's beautiful daughter perhaps. The gem of the kingdom, the gorgeous prize of the people. When he investigates the claims and sees that the rumors of her beauty were true, he decides to make her his. Not because he cares for her, but because the loss of the beloved princess and only heir to the kingdom will cause disruption throughout the lands. It will cause strife, make the minds and morals of the people weaker, more susceptible to his deals. That is the only reason. It is not because he is struck by her beauty or is intrigued by her bravery as she looks straight into his eyes. It is not because he hopes she will learn to think of him than more than a beast. It is not because he is lonely in his wretched existence. It's not because he cares or hopes she will either.

He doesn't care.

She yells out to him from her "room." He can hear her fear, her anger echoing through the halls. He giggles as she demands to be let out, as if she actually had power over him. The tone is regal, authoritive. The girl is no wilting flower. Hours latter, after the sun has risen and she has be sufficiently cowed, she is serving him tea, still dressed in her ball gown. It is covered in filth from her new abode and is unsuited for the labor he intends to have her do, but it gives him a sense of fiendish glee to see her royal highness submit to him. She agrees to everything he tells her, so he tells her that she will skin children. The quip startles her and much to his amusement her cheeks flush as drops to the floor to clean the mess she has made. He looks down upon her as she cradles a chipped China cup and apologizes. She's apologizing to him of all people. It makes him uncomfortable and he oddly doesn't want to see her beautiful features enveloped in anything other than the smile she gave him seconds before when told her he was joking.

"It's only a cup," he says. He doesn't care that is chipped and it feels like a great burden has been lifted from his shoulders as he looks at her relieved face. The feeling is gone just as quickly it had come as he reminds himself that he doesn't care for this mere slip of a girl's emotions (or his own).

He doesn't care.

He let her walk out of his life, with false promises to return and of a story he doesn't wish to remember. He has to remind himself as he stands waiting at his window sill that he doesn't care. Of course he doesn't care for the girl. Why would he? She was just a pawn in his game, his little slave. Nothing more than a cleaning girl. It makes no difference that he will never again catch her graceful form dancing to a songless waltz in the hallways or hear her musical, ringing laughter fill his dark castle with joy and light. He could do without the blasted light, he was a creature of darkness. He could survive without the damned company, without her joyfully humming peasant songs under her breath as she cleaned his home. Oh yes. He would survive without the waft of roses from her hair that tickled his nose with her every passing, without her crystal eyes looking into his own not with loathing, but acceptance and emotions that he knows he must be imagining. He never again needs to see that lovely smile, not fake but filled with joy for being with him, after he teases her and the minx teases him right back. He didn't need those things and he certainly doesn't care for them. He doesn't treasure every moment spent with her. He had survived for decades alone before she entered his life and he'd do it again. He doesn't care. At least that's what he tells himself as he stands looking out of his tower window waiting, hoping for her return.

He doesn't care.

She lied. She Used Him. She TRICKED Him. She made him believe that she loved him and tried to make him have feelings for her. He knew better though. He was a beast. Nobody could love him and he could love nobody. She had played her game with his heart, had tried to weaken the beast, destroy his very being but she had failed.

Then why did he still long for the feel of her lips and the white magic that spread over him when those soft petals had touched his own? Why had his heart quivered when she dared to look him in the eyes and tell him he was a coward, that he could have had happiness, that he could have had her? Why hadn't he been able to see one trace of deception on her beautiful trace, one hint of her lies? Why did his home feel so empty now that he had cast her out for good? Why did he feel like he was missing a part of himself, like he was chipped? No, these are just silly questions. The lingering results of her petty deception. Nothing had changed. Rumplestiltskin was a monster, a predator that prays upon peoples fondest desires. He has no desires of his own. He has no wishes. He has no feelings for Belle. He doesn't care he tells himself. He commands himself not to care.

He doesn't care.

"She died."

He stares at the Queen in numb shock. Two words, two simple little words said in such a flippant way. Who knew that two worlds were all that it took to make Rumplestiltskin's world come crashing down around him. The Queen just stares at him, looking smug as she watches his heart shatter, the mask he hides behind completely useless now.

"You're lying." This isn't real. It cannot be true.

"Am I?"

She's not. He can tell. He sees the future, there is no Belle. There is no happiness for him. There is no love. His love gone forever.

"_She died."_

The words echoes in his brain, over and over and over again. Belle is dead. His Belle is dead because of him. Because she loved him and he sent her away. He had thought it was all a lie, their feelings for each other. A trap made by the Queen. It was, but his Belle hadn't known, he could see it in the witch's face. His Belle had been tricked just as he had and now she had paid for it in the end. They had both been played like fools and now the only person in the world who loved him is dead. Belle. Is. Dead.

He knows that heartless witch of a queen can see his weakness, his heartache as she strides out of his home in triumph.

He doesn't care.

He knows that Belle is not coming back. She is never coming back and she was right about him in the end. That all he has left of her is a chipped cup and hole where his heart should be. The heart that a monster such as he should not have possessed but was claimed by her all the same. That this cup, this fragile insignificant thing could never replace his Belle.

He doesn't care.

He knows that she had truly loved him and their souls had been destined for each other. That the love she held in her beautiful heart for him had been what killed her in the end. Scourges and flaying. Her father had her tortured because he had tainted her. Because she loved him. He felt physically sick, like someone had ripped his heart bare handedly out of his chest and crushed it. Her love for him killed her and now she's never coming back. She was gone… forever.

Rumplestiltskin takes the chipped cup from the back of his cabinet, breaking the vow he had made to himself that he would never look at it again.

He doesn't care.

Rumplestiltskin places the cup on a pedestal as reminder of Belle. Of her love, his weakness on display for an who dared to venture his halls to see.

He doesn't care.

And as his hand hovers over the only thing left of his love, Rumplestiltskin weeps. He weeps despite the fact that monsters shouldn't feel, that they shouldn't shed tears, and that he knows that they most certainly can't and do not love.

He doesn't care.

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><p>I finally got enough courage to post one of my fanfics up. I couldn't resist the pull of Rumbelle.<p>

Anyways, thanks for reading.


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